


caí demasiado rápido, muy profundo

by owilde



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Awkward Flirting, Bad Spanish, Clubbing, F/F, First Meetings, Meet-Cute, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, at least I think so since I don't speak Spanish, in the loosest possible definition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 07:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13676751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: Isabelle’s not sure if they’re playing some sort of a game, or if the girl’s situational awareness really is this poor. She crosses her fingers for the latter – she’s tired of games. She’s played enough for her lifetime.





	caí demasiado rápido, muy profundo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lindsey7618](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindsey7618/gifts).



> so............... all spanish bits are from various translators and might have Mistakes, I apologise
> 
> anywayy i sort of promised my friend clizzy fluff for Valentine's and this is what i scraped together. happy Valentine's Day, hoe

Isabelle notices her right away; it’s hard not to.

She’s the only one in the club who looks as lost as Isabelle feels. She’s pushing her way through the crowd, hesitant to touch the sweaty shoulders and backs around her. Her hair’s slicked back, her face an explosion of colour, made all the more vibrant by the constant throbbing of the neon lights, highlighting her angles and flaws in a delicious way. She’s holding on to her purse like it’s her lifeline and the dance floor is a sea she’s drowning in.

Isabelle sips her too expensive, too bright, too cold drink and watches her. The ice and alcohol burn down her throat when she swallows, eyes trailing up and down the girl who’s now walking in Isabelle’s direction, her hips swaying unsurely to the tempo of the music.

She stops next to Isabelle, who’s leaning her back against the counter, her elbows pushed back against the black linoleum. Isabelle turns her head in her direction, eyeing her up.

She’s wearing an atrocious, army green shirt which exposes her shoulders but not the rest of her hands; the puffy sleeves stop abruptly by her wrists, leading up to dark, short nails, decorated with stickers of white stars. The black shorts expose her white legs – Isabelle glances at her flat shoes and forces her eyes up, up and up and to her face.

She’s not looking back; she’s acting like she hasn’t even taken notice of Isabelle’s presence next to her. She leans over the counter to yell her order at the bartender, who nods absently and starts mixing the drink.

Isabelle’s not sure if they’re playing some sort of a game, or if the girl’s situational awareness really is this poor. She crosses her fingers for the latter – she’s tired of games. She’s played enough for her lifetime, gambling her love away to anyone with big enough stakes. In the end, she was the only one who ended up losing anything at all.

The girl gets her drink and sips it, and finally, _finally_ , turns to look at Isabelle.

Her eyes scan Isabelle, from her bright red dress to her fishnets to her high-heeled boots, before returning to her face, curious and a little imploring. She takes another sip of her drink, cocks her hip against the counter and watches.

Isabelle lets herself smile, bordering on a smirk. “Hey,” she says over the blaring of the music.

“Hi,” the girl says. Her eyes trace over Isabelle’s features for the briefest of seconds, taking everything in. “Clary,” she introduces. She doesn’t offer her hand; Isabelle didn’t expect her to.

“Isabelle,” she says. She nods at the drink. “What did you order?”

Clary glances at the glass in her hand like she’d forgotten it was there. The drink’s blue and red blending together, topped with too much ice and a slice of lime. She takes a sip of it, blinking slowly. “I think it has mint,” she offers. “And I guess maybe some kind of raspberry liquor?”

Isabelle reaches out with a single raised brow. Clary lets her take the glass and try it. She’s right; mint and raspberry, and unless Isabelle’s gotten extremely rusty, some vodka. She hands the drink back with a non-committed shrug. “Pretty good.”

The string of laughter escaping Clary’s mouth sounds better than all the music in the club combined. She shakes her head slightly, smiling. “ _Pretty good_ ,” she echoes, a gentle mock. “What did you get, then?”

“ _Rebujito_ ,” Isabelle says, letting her own accent slip in. “Sherry y sprite. Muy fresco.”

“Tú hablas español?” Clary asks, her eyes lighting up. “Yo tomo un curso el año pasado.”

Her accent’s terrible and yet simultaneously the most incredible thing Isabelle’s heard all night. Isabelle finds herself adoring it, hanging off the syllables which fall too short and the n’s which don’t roll quite the right way.

“Sí,” Isabelle says. “Soy latina.”

“Oh,” Clary says. “Well, then, of course you speak Spanish.”

Isabelle shrugs. “Not obviously,” she says. “But I happen to. And you took a course?”

Clary nods. She drags her fingers through her messy red hair, pushing it back against her scalp. It falls down against her back in wild curls, too wild to not be authentic. “Obligatorio,” she says, stumbling just a little with her pronunciation. “Yo estudio historia.”

Gorgeous and intelligent. Isabelle finds herself hoping the rest of the club would fade away so that she could have a real conversation with Clary, without the pulsing of the music and the drunken bodies bumping against them. This is the first genuine conversation she’s had all night; the rest have been comprised of one-night propositions and offers to buy drinks, granted Isabelle gives something in return. It’s refreshing.

“Que rama?” She asks, half genuinely interested and half wanting to keep the conversation going long enough to get Clary’s number. Or at least a promise of maybe getting it in the future. Anything, really.

“Mexican culture and anthropology,” Clary tells her. “I mean, it’s a useless degree in real life, but so was an arts degree and I already dropped out of that, so. Why not go all the way and go for something even more useless?” Clary laughs a little, shaking her head.

“You’re an artist?” Isabelle asks. She’s met artists before; Isabelle wonders which category Clary falls into. The self-employed genius of their own life, the academic discipline, the aloof bohemian, the political propaganda machine – or something else, entirely?

Clary shrugs. The shoulder of her shirt slips the slightest bit further down, revealing a constellation of freckles and moles. Isabelle’s eyes zero in on them before she pries her gaze away and back to Clary’s face. She hasn’t noticed, deep in a staring contest with the ice in her drink. “Trying to be,” Clary says. “I love art, but it won’t pay for my rent, you know?”

“And Mexican culture will?” Isabelle asks, amused.

Clary huffs, her eyes sliding up to Isabelle’s, who swallows. “I hope so. And what about you – what do you do?”

“Forensic science,” Isabelle says. “Specialising in forensic pathology.” She expects the usual reactions; shock, confusion, disbelief. _This girl_ , she can always hear them think, _this girl who looks like sex on legs, how could she have the brains for anything?_ And then they say, aloud, _no, really, what do you do?”_

“Oh,” Clary says, smiling genuinely and brightly. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who studies that. Is it interesting? You like it?”

Isabelle blinks, confused. “Um,” she manages, “yeah, it—I like it a lot.” She pauses, huffing in slight amazement. “You know, no stranger has ever bothered to ask me if I like it, before.”

“They should,” Clary shrugs. “What’s the point in studying something you don’t like? Something that you’re not passionate about?”

“Money?” Isabelle offers. “Stability?”

“Fair enough.” Clary shakes her head slightly. “I don’t get it, though. Why would anyone want to be trapped in a job they hate? I get that sometimes there’s no other option, but… well. Just seems like a waste of time, if you ask me. We only get this one life, and I know I don’t want to spend it by doing something I don’t even like.”

“How hedonistic of you.”

Clary shrugs sheepishly. “Sometimes, you have to do what’s best for you. I’m not living this life for anyone else, you know?”

“No,” Isabelle agrees, “we’re not. Sometimes you just tend to forget that.”

“It’s easy to get lost in life.” Clary downs the rest of her drink and places the glass on the counter. She glances around at them, at the pulsing dance floor and the increasing crowd, before her eyes slide back to Isabelle. “So, there’s this great twenty-four-seven Chinese place nearby," she says casually, tilting her head.

Isabelle glances at her phone: twenty past two in the morning. “That sounds brilliant,” she says, smiling softly. “You can tell me more about your Mexican studies, hm?”

Clary grins at her, her eyes crinkled, her mascara a little smudged. “I’d love to,” she says, and Isabelle—

Well. Isabelle is quite hooked on that smile, already.


End file.
